


With Eyes of Flame

by voxanonymi (spasmodicIntrigue)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alice in Wonderland References, Allusions to Omen Trailer, Angst, Animal Death, Anxiety, Blood, Costlemark Lore, Fainting, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Psychological Horror, Temporary Character Death, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 12:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17325149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spasmodicIntrigue/pseuds/voxanonymi
Summary: “Umbra?” He glanced around. The morning was rising, dull light filtering through the canopy, giving the close-knit trees on all sides a flat, dispassionate mask. There was no near-to and no distance, just chilly grey half-light and his own anxious heartbeat.They've conquered Costlemark, slain the Jabberwock, and retrieved the Sword of the Tall. But now there's something not right with Noctis, and he can't tell if he's losing it or if there's something truly sinister afoot.





	With Eyes of Flame

**Author's Note:**

> That's... the most I've ever had to tag for a fic. The "Animal Death" tag specifically refers to a nameless dog, in case that's likely to upset you. If you're wondering about the Alice in Wonderland references tag, I mainly mean the [Jabberwocky poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42916/jabberwocky), which is where the title is from. Technically it's from _Through the Looking-Glass_ , but there was no canonised tag for that one.
> 
> I started this thing in mid-October, finished the first draft in early November, then spent... a very long time agonising over it. And now I'm posting it, semi-coincidentally, on the anniversary of my first-ever FFXV fic! Also coincidentally, that first-ever fic was also my longest FFXV fic until now.
> 
> Anyway. Buckle in, my friends. And... enjoy??

He woke up.

There was something distinctly wrong about being awake. Multiple somethings. It was still dark, for one something: no sunlight straining through the tent canvas, telling him he should have been up hours ago. His friends were still asleep, for another something, as told by the three asynchronous sets of sleep-slowed breath.

But Noctis had woken up. He was awake, at whatever godless, lonely hour this was. And he couldn’t get back to sleep. He couldn’t force his eyes shut again. They were wide open, and he was wide awake.

Well, he thought. If I’m not getting any more sleep there’s no point lying here.

He got up, grabbing a warm jacket and creeping out of the tent, easing the zip with almost unbearable slowness to keep the noise to a near-negligible minimum.

The stars were still at large, but the moon had gone back into hiding. Sunrise was near. Or maybe it wasn’t. The thick forest of the Fallgrove told no secrets, but the air smelled of waning night, of fresh-lain dew on overgrown grass. Stubborn embers glowed amongst the petrified remains of last night’s campfire. Noctis knelt and held out his hands, but the dead fire had no warmth to offer.

When they’d set up camp here three days ago, Noctis hadn’t noticed how dense the forest was. Looking at it now, it seemed endless and impenetrable. The trees stood a respectful distance from the haven, almost as if afraid to come closer. As if they hid some secret that the Oracle’s enchantments would reveal in an instant.

Noctis sat back on his haunches and shoved his hands into his armpits. It was cold. It wasn’t even morning. What the hell had woken him?

Movement at the treeline drew his eyes. A silhouette in the desaturated haze. A small, hunched form. A proud form. The patient posture of a patient canine.

“Umbra,” Noctis muttered, breath billowing in a pale cloud before him. He zipped up his jacket and clambered down from the haven, squelching across the wet grass towards the dog. He wasn’t wearing shoes. His socks and the cuffs of the sweats he’d slept in were wet within seconds, the cold seeping deep into the bones of his feet, his ankles, aching up into his shins.

When Noctis was halfway across the clearing, Umbra turned and disappeared into the shadows of the forest, paws whispering over the undergrowth.

“Hey!” Noctis called softly. It was too damn cold for this. Should have grabbed shoes. He picked up into a jog, squinting and shivering as the trees closed around him.

The flick of a tail up ahead—or was it just a shifting shadow? He followed, trusting Umbra, knowing the messenger had to be leading him on this wild trail for a reason. Noctis’ feet were numb and his teeth were chattering, and in no time at all he was utterly lost.

Noctis came to a juddering stop, breathing in halting puffs, still cold despite the activity. “Umbra?” He glanced around. The morning was rising, dull light filtering through the canopy, giving the close-knit trees on all sides a flat, dispassionate mask. There was no near-to and no distance, just chilly grey half-light and his own anxious heartbeat.

A rustling to Noctis’ left. He jumped. No—it was above him. Above and to the left. That tree there, the one with the low branches, creepers latched around the trunk in possessive looping patterns.

He summoned a sword and approached with care, peering up through the dense, quivering foliage. He could barely feel the hilt of his sword under his frozen fingers. Where was Umbra? What the hell was going on?

His confusion made way for a trickle of fear, and the trickle of fear stole his mind from his body long enough for the daemon in the tree to leap at him. Noctis yelped as the goblin’s manic leer loomed towards him, almost nose-to-nose, but his sword arm swung upwards on instinct and the goblin dissolved into reddened ashes before even gravity could react.

Breathing hard, from the fright more than the fight, Noctis looked around. It was quiet. Too early for birds; too late for the creatures and monsters of the night. What had this goblin been doing here so close to daylight? Whatever the reason, Noctis didn’t care to stick around to see if it had brought a plus-one to its tree-climbing party.

Umbra was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’d never meant to be spotted in the first place—messengers were mysterious at the best of times… and these were not those times. There was something, though, that didn’t sit right with Noctis.

His cheek was stinging. He touched it and his fingers came away warm and red. Huh. Guess the goblin scored a hit.

Noctis found his way back to camp easily enough by going back the way he thought he’d come, and then by following the smell of woodsmoke. Someone else was awake, and you only get one guess as to who. The steadily-rising sun finally gave colour to the world, a pinky-golden glow to banish the tricky grey haze.

It was still really fucking cold, though.

Noctis couldn’t help but let out a breath of relief when the shroud of trees parted and deposited him into Oathe Haven’s clearing. There was indeed a plume of smoke spiralling skywards from the haven’s centre. He could smell something cooking.

Ignis, fully dressed, hair sharply styled, stood at the haven’s edge, arms crossed, peering out at the treeline. He visibly started when he saw Noctis, noticed the blood on his face, the state of his feet, and his overall dishevelled appearance.

“Noct!” He leapt down from the haven and marched across the clearing, probably getting the cuffs of his trousers wet, evidently not caring. “Where on Eos have you been? What _happened_?” He grabbed Noctis’ chin, pulling his face to the side to examine the bleeding scratch.

Noctis swatted him away. “Get off! It’s nothing. I went for a piss and a goblin tried to jump me.”

“And nearly succeeded?”

“I was half-asleep. And… preoccupied?” Noctis couldn’t have explained, even to himself, why he was lying. The truth felt too much like a dream, too foggy and fleeting and frightening to want to recount so soon. Hell, maybe it _had_ been a dream. Maybe he was still dreaming.

Ignis didn’t look convinced, not that Noctis expected him to, but he accepted the explanation for now. He ushered Noctis back to the haven and sat him down by the fire, ducking into the tent to fetch dry socks and the first aid kit, insisting on swabbing the scratch with antiseptic. “Just to be safe,” was his excuse. His excuse to make a fuss. It wasn’t even a deep cut, and by the time the blood was wiped away it was barely noticeable but for the raised pink skin. Like a cat scratch. From one seriously ugly cat.

“Why didn’t you put any shoes on?” was what Ignis really wanted to know.

“I… didn’t know the grass would be wet?”

“Noct,” Ignis reproached.

But Noctis was rescued from further concerned grilling by Prompto bursting forth from the tent with a wide grin and a loud, “Gooood morning, Fallgrove! Oof, is it me or is it chilly this morning?” He blinked when he noticed Noctis. “Noct! You’re up early.”

Gladio clambered out behind him, looking considerably less cheerful. “Damn, it’s cold. How are _you_ up so early?” he said to Noctis. Not why; _how._

“Is it so hard to believe that I just _woke up_ early?”

His friends exchanged looks.

Noctis rolled his eyes. “It’s the truth.” And this time, it really was.

In an effort to “warm up” and “get some blood flowing,” Prompto decided to run laps around the haven. Gladio, objecting to a teasing comment about agility over bulk, decided to join him. Noctis, meanwhile, went into the freshly vacated tent to get dressed, pulling on some jeans and a clean shirt to go under his jacket, and finally, _finally_ putting shoes on.

Then he resumed his seat by the fire. The sun was rising over the treetops, washing the clearing in egg-yolk gold, leeching away the morning chill the way an ice cube melts in an air-conditioned room. With the weight of insufficient sleep heavy on Noctis’ shoulders, he felt like he could just sit there forever. With the fire heating his legs, the sun alighting his face, the smell of bacon filling his nostrils, and the sounds of Prompto and Gladio good-naturedly trash-talking each other in the background.

“Here.”

He looked up. Ignis was holding out a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs. Noctis went to take it, but Ignis didn’t let go right away. He held Noctis’ gaze. “You don’t have to tell me anything you feel uncomfortable sharing, but please don’t insult me by lying to me. Costlemark was an ordeal. Don’t leave us in the dark.” Then he let go of the plate and turned back to the stove, leaving Noctis to stare down at his steaming breakfast with a bile of guilt rising inside him.

It was almost cunning. Ignis knew _just_ what buttons to push. He was right, though.

Gladio and Prompto were still running their laps. Ignis hadn’t called them to breakfast yet; was filling his own plate and sitting down to eat. Those two would come when they were ready.

So Noctis told him the truth about waking up for no reason, going outside and seeing Umbra, chasing him, getting lost, and then the goblin.

Ignis looked troubled. “That’s… very strange,” he admitted. “Why would Umbra show up only to abandon you in the forest? It makes no sense.”

“I know,” said Noctis. “Something’s not right about it.”

“Noct, why didn’t you tell me this in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” said Noctis. “It just… didn’t feel right. Ever since we killed that monster and came out of that place, Costlemark, whatever it’s called, there’s been something… wrong.”

“What?”

“Not sure. Probably just imagining things,” Noctis said with a self-deprecating smile, though he really didn’t feel like smiling.

Ignis’ frown said he wasn’t convinced. But then Prompto and Gladio returned, full of pep from their morning workout (weirdos), and lightened the mood far more effectively than the tired, distant sun ever could.

By the time they finished breakfast and packed up the tent, it was midmorning, and Noctis had all but forgotten about his unnerving, predawn wild-dog chase.

“So,” Prompto began, once they were safely in the Regalia, Galdin Quayward-bound. “We’re all in agreement, right? Never going near that place again? Costle-whatever-I-don’t-care, it sucks in there? Yes?”

“Yes,” Noctis agreed. “Fuck that place.”

“And fuck Dino,” Gladio added. “Noct, listen, if that prick asks you for another ‘favour,’ I’m gonna have to intervene. Y’know, as your Shield. You’re incapable of saying no, and these ‘errands’ are serious safety risks.”

“I _can_ say no,” Noctis grumbled.

“And sanity risks!” Prompto added. “ _Three_ _days_ underground. Three days!”

“Though by the state of the weather, one would think it had been three months,” said Ignis.

“I’ll say,” said Gladio.

They weren’t wrong. The day before they’d descended into Costlemark, (naively excited about another episode of dungeon diving, not only for the sake of Dino’s errand, but to emancipate a misplaced Royal Arm), it had been a warm, crisp day. The temperature had plummeted since then, as if following them into the depths of the earth and meeting its untimely demise at the weird clawed hands of the Jabberwock.

Noctis was amazed that the four of them had made it out alive—and largely unscathed. No damage that a few potions and some rest couldn’t fix. They got Dino’s stone, and they got the Royal Arm. It hadn’t been a fruitless expedition, just a perilous, incredibly trying one.

It was oddly fitting that the Sword of the Tall had ended up with the Jabberwock. According to Ignis, the Tall had once led his own fateful exhibition into the depths of Costlemark, thinking to glean Solheimian wisdom from the old ruins. Neither the king nor any of his retinue returned—only his sword was ever recovered, and sealed in his aboveground tomb in the Fallgrove. Until it was stolen, that is.

It wasn’t raining, but the air was biting cold, and sharp when moving through it at a clip, so they had the roof up and the heating on. It reminded Noctis of simpler days, being driven around in the Regalia during the colder months when he was a kid. Nostalgia settled over him like a downy blanket. The chatter of his friends faded into reassuring white noise as he sank into a warm, comfortable doze.

 

He woke up.

They had stopped. Usually the stopping was what woke him, but when Noctis opened his eyes, the car was empty. His friends were gone.

He got out of the car, rolling his head to stretch a crick out of his neck. The sky was muddied with clouds, the water restless and grey. The smell of salt and seafood was strong as ever; overwhelmingly strong. It edged uncomfortably towards sulphur and rot. And it was cold. Colder than Noctis had ever been at Galdin Quay, colder, even, than this morning during his impromptu jaunt through the woods. A bitter wind blew in off the surf, stinging his eyes and drying his lips.

There was no one around. Not a single soul. No one on the beach, no one on the wharf, no one at the weapons van, no one at the supply stall. No one.

“Guys?” Noctis called. His wavering voice was too loud in his own ears, echoing across the empty parking lot. “This isn’t funny.” It had to be some kind of ill-conceived joke, right? Just something to freak him out. Well, they’d succeeded. Noctis was freaked out. Surely they would hear that in his voice, surely they would decide that it was enough. Ha ha, very funny guys, you got me. Getcha back next time.

Only the hissing wind answered him.

Noctis swallowed. There would be people in the restaurant—there always were. Everyone had probably gone there to get out of the cold and wind. His friends had probably gone on ahead, decided to let him sleep. Or they _were_ playing a prank on him. But they wouldn’t have gone around the whole Quay and told _everyone_ to hide. Ignis wouldn’t allow that. Why did it have to be so damn cold?

His footfalls felt heavy, ungainly, loud and desolate as he crossed the carpark. Up the stairs. Onwards. As he stepped onto the walkway, the wooden planks creaked and bowed under his weight. That had never happened before. A spidery chill whispered down Noctis’ spine. The wind was stronger here, closer to the water, eddying about him in suppressive spirals.

He kept walking. It was the only thing he could do. He kept his arms folded tightly about himself, shoulders hunched, telling himself that the fear squeezing his lungs, pressing them up towards his dry, closed throat, was not there. There was nothing to be scared of. It was just a dumb prank. He couldn’t let them know he was genuinely frightened. Because he wasn’t. They would all laugh it off later. It’s what you get for falling asleep in the car, Noct. Ha ha, oh Noct, you and your habits.

The Mother of Pearl was deserted. It didn’t look as if it had been abandoned in a hurry. There were no half-eaten meals or uncleared tables. Nor dust or debris or evidence of prolonged desertion. Just—nothing.

“Seriously, guys,” Noctis called. “This is—this isn’t funny anymore.”

Nothing.

At the kitchen kiosk, Noctis leaned over the counter and hovered his hand over the stove elements. They were cold. This was too much for a simple prank. Something was very, very wrong.

He didn’t know what to do but to keep going, down onto the dock.

As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, near Dino’s usual spot (though Dino, of course, was not there), the smell of sulphur and rotting flesh hit him so hard he gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth and nose, doubling over from the violent swell of nausea.

There’s something wrong. There’s something bad. Something really bad. I should turn back.

But he had to keep going, it was the only way he would figure out what was going on. If he had to, he would jump straight into the icy, murky surf. If it would end this, he would do it. If he had to, he would.

He lifted the front of his shirt over his nose and breathed through his mouth. It didn’t entirely filter out the awful stench—added, in fact, the odour of his own nervous sweat—but it was an improvement.

Noctis’ head was spinning. One foot in front of the other. At the end of the dock, the smell of rot was so overwhelming that he had to stop breathing altogether, clasping both hands over his nose and mouth. His eyes watered. His head was about to float away. He knelt down on the slimy planks and peered over the end of the dock. He peered into the glassy, fixed eyes of the bloated brown dog, half-submerged in the water, bobbing up and down in a poor imitation of life.

He recoiled, vaulting to his feet, stumbling backwards. He yelped as he backed into something solid. He whipped around, overbalancing, falling, falling…

“Whoa!” Gladio grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. “Watch it! It’s just me.”

Breathing hard, heart hammering, Noctis looked around. By the stairs, Dino was sitting in his usual spot, talking to Ignis and Prompto. Upstairs, the restaurant was busy. The sounds of chatter, the clatter of cutlery, and the sizzling of frying fish drifted down to them over the sigh of the ocean. Across the water, on the beach, there were people running, walking, sitting, lying, building sandcastles. A few even braved the brisk waves.

Noctis swallowed hard. What the hell was happening?

“You good?”

Gladio was still holding his arm, peering into his face with deeply etched concern.

Noctis pulled away. “I’m fine,” he said. He looked back into the water at the end of the dock. Gladio peered over his shoulder at the dead dog. It was wearing a blue collar, with a matching leash tangled around a mooring post, anchoring the dog’s corpse to the dock like a boat. A horrible accident? Or someone’s sick idea of a joke?

“Holy shit,” said Gladio. “We should let someone know about that. That’s what’s got you spooked out?”

Noctis nodded haltingly.

Gladio had asked the question, but didn’t seem as if he believed the answer. “Well… we’ve seen worse,” he said carefully.

“I know. It was just… I didn’t expect it.” Noctis’ voice was shaking. His heart wouldn’t calm, beating hard enough to rattle his whole body, to quake his brains, to push the air out of his lungs.

Gladio was talking again, saying something else, but Noctis’ sledgehammer heart had knocked something loose in his head; his ears were full of liquid, all sounds strained through a watery filter.

Another voice called from behind. They turned to see Ignis and Prompto walking towards them as if nothing were wrong in the whole world, when, actually, everything was wrong. Nothing made sense, and _this_ was wrong, and none of this could possibly be real because it all felt too far away. He was dreaming, Noctis realised, drifting away from himself. He had to be.

The image before him blurred, the way his hearing had blurred, and everything was just a distant blur of sounds and smells and colours. There were hands on his shoulders, but Noctis wasn’t here anymore. The dream was fading, and he was going down with it.

 

He woke up.

It was dark. He was warm. The unsettling dreams that had propelled him to awakening were quickly dissolving into indistinct fuzz in the back of his mind.

After a moment, Noctis’ eyes adjusted to the darkness. The hotel room’s blackout curtains were drawn shut against the moon and stars and eternal beacon-lights of Galdin Quay. His ears came awake, and he could hear the murmur of voices out on the deck, just beyond the curtains.

He sat up. His head and neck hurt, and he wasn’t entirely up to scratch on the fine details of what the fuck had happened to him.

He remembered the dog. The smell. That awful smell. Just the memory of it sent nausea shooting up into his throat. That had truly, actually happened, hadn’t it? He clenched his eyes shut and tried to breathe. The room smelled of clean sheets and air conditioning. That suited Noctis just fine.

There was a slight gap in the curtains, right by the door. Ghostly light reached into the room and rested a paw on the end of Noctis’ bed, as if to say, hey, when you feel up to it, come join us.

Someone had removed his shoes and socks and jacket for him. If there were enough light in the room to see where they were, he would have grabbed them before going outside. But it was too much effort to find the light switch. And he wanted to see his friends. Needed to. He was a little unsteady as he stood, padding across the carpet to that gap in the curtains.

The sound and smell of the sea hit him unfiltered when he opened the sliding door. Noctis’ friends stopped talking and looked over at him as he stood in the doorway, barefooted, bed-headed, and a little unsteady. He stared back.

“Noct,” Prompto was the first to speak. “How—how do you feel?”

“Fine,” said Noctis. He shivered. “Cold,” he said.

“Your jacket’s on the chair,” Ignis said, rising. “I’ll get it.”

Noctis moved aside so that Ignis could slip past him into the room. He rubbed his arms and sat down in the nearest empty chair.

“So, you scared the shit out of us,” said Gladio.

“For real,” Prompto agreed. They were both watching him as if he might keel over again at any second. Noctis didn’t _think_ that was likely. The fresh air smoothed over his aches, and the cold was a good enough distraction from everything else.

Noctis stared at Gladio, half expecting to be berated for not taking care of himself, or something along those lines. But the only lines were the ones in Gladio’s forehead, where his eyebrows pinched in. He was concerned.

Ignis told them, Noctis realised. Ignis must have told them about what happened this morning.

A maggot of fear began to writhe in his chest, and he wasn’t sure why.

“What happened back there?” Gladio asked.

“I don’t know,” Noctis said truthfully. “I just… I don’t know.”

Gladio and Prompto exchanged a meaningful glance. As in, there was meaning in the glance they shared, but Noctis didn’t know what that meaning was.

“It was the smell, I think,” Noctis tried again, “that made me pass out.” Maybe it was even true. But what had happened before that? Where had everyone gone, and how had they suddenly reappeared, as if they’d never gone anywhere in the first place? And what about the dog?

“Smell? What smell?” Prompto questioned.

“Of the dog,” Noctis said.

Gladio’s frown deepened. “I didn’t think it was that bad, all considered. But you were closer to it. Anyway, that’s been cleared away,” he said. “That dog had been missing for about a week. Got away from its elderly owner late at night. They reckon it took a plunge off the end of the dock and couldn’t get back up when it got its leash tangled around the mooring post—probably would have been found sooner, if the ferries were still running and people were out on the dock more often.”

Prompto looked stricken. “The poor thing!” he said. “The owner must feel terrible. Poor pup must have been there for ages trying to keep himself afloat, getting more and more tired… Ugh, I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Neither,” said Noctis, “but now you’ve put a pretty good image in my head. Thanks, Prompto.” He hoped he sounded light-hearted. He didn’t feel light-hearted, in fact his heart felt impossibly heavy, but he needed this conversation to change direction.

Gladio snorted. “Images _are_ his specialty.”

“What can I say?” Prompto spread his hands with a sheepish grin. “I have a talent.”

Ignis returned, with Noctis’ jacket and socks, a tall glass of water and a couple of painkillers.

“You hit your head quite hard when you fell,” he said, to explain the lattermost, placing them on the table while Noctis pulled on his socks and jacket. “I imagine it smarts a bit.”

That explained why Noctis’ neck hurt, too. Whiplash. He didn’t even remember hitting the deck. He supposed he was unconscious before it happened. Well, of course he was. He fell _because_ he was suddenly unconscious, suddenly helpless to gravity. That was how that worked. Idiot.

“Thanks, Specs,” Noctis said, obediently gulping down the painkillers with the water.

Ignis offered him a strained smile and placed the back of his hand on Noctis’ forehead. Noctis barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes—better to let Ignis fuss for now, if it would help him feel better.

“You don’t have a temperature,” Ignis announced.

“He reckons it was the smell that made him pass out,” said Gladio. The lines had returned to his forehead. Great, now they were back to this.

Ignis looked at Gladio. Gladio looked at Ignis. They were exchanging a glance, another glance full of meaning which Noctis was not privy to.

“I mean, it could just be exhaustion, right?” said Prompto. “We were stuck in that hellhole of a dungeon for _days_ , and Noct used a lot—like, a _lot_ —of magic. Could be some sort of, uh, prolonged… stasis… type… thing. Y’know?”

Noctis felt a surge of gratitude towards Prompto. It was a good explanation. It made sense. Mostly. “And I haven’t been sleeping great since then,” he admitted.

“Sleep disturbances _are_ a common symptom of magical exhaustion,” Ignis admitted, though he didn’t look convinced. “Well, we’ll take a few days to rest and recuperate. We’re in the perfect place for it.”

This time, Noctis did roll his eyes. “Ignis, I’ll be fine. I feel way better now. Full night’s sleep, and I’ll be back to normal.” Of course, he wasn’t certain of that, but if he could will it into truth, he would.

“You’re not the only one who needs the rest,” Ignis said. “I suspect my wrist may not have healed correctly,” he clarified, cradling the offending wrist in his opposite hand.

Now Noctis just felt like a dick. Ignis had sprained—perhaps even broken—his wrist while fighting a Red Giant in Costlemark, and Noctis had completely forgotten all about it until now. At the time, there was nothing to do but chuck a potion on it and keep going. If it had been broken, Noctis wasn’t surprised that it hadn’t healed right. Potions were a safety net, not a cure-all. But it was just like Ignis to not mention an injury like this. Not until an opportune moment, at least.

“Right,” Noctis said awkwardly. He turned to Prompto and Gladio. “What about you two?”

Gladio shrugged. “I’m too good to get injured. Wouldn’t say no to some R and R, though.”

“Prompto?”

Prompto smirked. “Oh, I ache _all over_ , dude.” He placed both hands in the small of his back and crowed, “Oh, my aching back!”

There was half a second of complete silence. Then the four of them burst out laughing.

“I am _so_ telling Cid about this,” said Noctis.

“No you are _not_!” Prompto cried. “Or I’ll tell him that… that you drool all over the seats while you sleep in the Regalia!”

“That’s a lie!”

“Not a _complete_ lie,” Gladio chimed in.

“And sometimes you snore,” added Ignis. “I once thought there was a problem with the engine, but it was only you.”

Noctis’ jaw dropped. “I do _not_ snore!”

His friends gave him dubious glances.

“This is slander. Slander and treason.”

They all laughed again, and whiled away the next half-hour with frivolous back-and-forth. They had a late dinner delivered to the room, and Ignis gave Noctis a hard time for not eating his vegetables. Noctis feigned annoyance, but this was a familiar routine. One he knew in the deepest chambers of his heart. And with familiarity came comfort.

As the remains of their dinner went cold and the air temperature plummeted ever further, and as they all started to yawn and complain about how tired they were, Noctis was certain that everything was okay now. He was okay. It would all be okay.

But when he climbed back under the covers and set his tired, battered, aching head down on the clean hotel pillow, he knew he was deluding himself. Nothing was okay, and everything had been un-okay for a long time. Since the first time they stayed here, and discovered upon waking in the morning that their home was destroyed and Noctis’ father was dead. _Dead_. Gone. And it was Noctis’ job to fix everything, but that would never happen. He was too broken to ever be capable of fixing _anything_.

He fell asleep with clenched fists and tears in his eyes. He dreamed of darkness and the smell of burning flesh. He was hot all over from a dry, scathing heat that emanated from within as much as without.

He looked down at his hands, looked down to see them shrivelled and charred, threaded with the glowing golden traces of a fire with nothing left to burn. He looked down at his hands, and they flaked away into ashes, fading into nothing.

 

He woke up.

He was shaking and sweating, and his heart was beating so fast he briefly wondered if he’d woken up in time to witness his own death by heart attack. He lay still and held his eyes shut for as long as he could withstand the darkness behind his eyelids, trying to breathe deeply and convince his heart to calm down.

Noctis finally opened his eyes and sat up in the tangled, sweat-damp sheets. Prompto, sitting across the room tying his shoelaces, looked up.

“Oh. Hey. Morning,” he said. “You okay?”

Evidently, Noctis looked as shitty as he felt. Already, he had a headache, and the cooling sweat all over his body was turning his tremoring to shivering. “Fine,” he said. “Bad dream. I guess. Where are those two?”

Prompto double knotted his laces, then sprang up, doing a little bounce on the balls of his feet. “Well, Ignis went to see a doctor about his wrist, and Gladio went with him. I was about to go for a run on the beach, if you… wanted to join me?”

It was nothing more than politeness, and maybe wishful thinking on Prompto’s part. Ordinarily Noctis would turn him down without a second thought, because, like, no _thank_ you, you weirdo, but this morning Noctis’ options were, a) go for a jog with Prompto, or b) stay here with his own suffocating thoughts. Tough one.

“Sure,” he said.

Prompto almost choked on his own surprise. “ _Seriously?_ You sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Better than ever.” Noctis rolled his eyes, working on extricating his legs from the bedsheets. “Give me a few minutes.”

Prompto offered a playful salute. “Aye-aye, Captain. I’ll be outside, warming up.”

“You do that.”

Maybe the fresh ocean air would clear Noctis’ head, or at least sand down the rough edges of his headache. And his mood.

The first thing he did was go into the bathroom and scrub a toothbrush around his mouth to get the taste of bad sleep off his tongue. He desperately wanted to take a shower, but if he was really going through with this jogging thing, there was no point. Ugh. Why was he doing this again?

Prompto was just outside the room, as he said he would be, doing lunges. He grinned when he saw Noctis, in a zip-up hoodie and the sweat pants he’d slept in. “Oh, you’re wearing black for a change?”

“Shut up,” said Noctis. “Let’s go, before I change my mind.”

To Noctis’ abject horror, Prompto started jogging before they even _got_ to the beach. He started jogging, in fact, as soon as they stepped from the restaurant to the walkway.

“This was _not_ part of the deal,” Noctis grumbled.

Prompto lifted his face towards the sun, taking in a deep breath of morning air. It was chilly again today, but the rising sun took the edge off. “Sometimes, Noct,” he said airily, “you just gotta brave the cold and dive straight in.”

Noctis glanced over the railing, at the clear, turquoise water gambolling about the walkway supports. “Maybe later.”

Prompto laughed and shoulder-bumped Noctis. “Stop dragging your feet!” he barked, in a falsely husky voice. Like falsetto’s evil twin. “How are you gonna be king if you can’t even jog properly?!”

“Is that supposed to be your Gladio impression?”

“I’ve been practising.”

“Give up.”

“Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me,” Prompto sang, then picked up the pace, forcing Noctis to match him lest he be left behind, alone, like some sort of loser.

Finally, they got to the beach proper. The difference in terrain underfoot was instantaneous and unwelcome, and they both slowed involuntarily. It was worse than the time Gladio had challenged Noctis to a beachbound footrace first thing in the morning. It was the same beach. Why did it feel worse now than it had then?

They jogged—arduously—past the fishing wharf and supply stall. Any other day, Noctis would be tempted to stop; would lament at not having brought his gear; would take any excuse or opportunity to cast a line. Today it all seemed to take more energy than he was capable of. He couldn’t be bothered. He thought maybe he could see Prompto looking at him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to say something about fish. Or maybe he was imagining things. Maybe he was tired from the jogging already. Why did he agree to this? He wasn’t normally a masochist, unlike Prompto.

“See? This isn’t so bad!” the resident masochist (Prompto) enthused as they drew close to the haven near the end of the beach. He didn’t even have the decency to sound puffed out.

“Not for you,” Noctis wheezed, for his part _surprised_ at how out of breath he was. He’d had his issues with stamina and endurance in the past, but he’d thought that hurdle to be far behind him by now. “I appreciate you… as a friend… and all… but I’ll never understand morning people. I need to… I need to stop.”

Noctis slowed to a stop and leaned over, hands on knees, to catch his breath. His heart was pounding in his head, too loud, too fast. He felt sluggish and weighted. As if the air had turned to water, and he could neither breathe nor move with the ease and fluidity he expected of the world above the surface.

“You good? Didn’t work you too hard, did I?” Prompto asked, hovering uncertainly.

Noctis straightened, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. You aren’t even half the hardass Gladio is. I’m just…” He shrugged. “Not at my best.”

Prompto nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I get it. You wanna head back? Get some breakfast?”

“Not yet.” Noctis had spotted the elemental nodes over by the haven. He pointed at the nearest one: ire. “Should fill up, while I’m here.”

The look on Prompto’s face said that he was wondering whether it was a good idea to let Noctis play with fire so shortly after getting burned—or so the working theory went. He was probably thinking, “what would Ignis do?” But in the end, he shrugged and said, “If you’re sure.”

Noctis shrugged right back and led the way up off the sand to the elemental node.

As he approached, the vivid dream-image of his own arms traced with smouldering trails _just like this fire node_ flashed into Noctis’ head and dropped cold stones into his lungs. Maybe this wasn’t such a cunning idea.

Suck it up _,_ he told himself, though the voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Gladio. You’ve done this a thousand times.

Closing his eyes, he held out a hand, reaching for the raw power before him. It leapt to his fingertips, flowing hot and strong up his arm. Where did the power go, when he took it into himself? It seemed to disappear to somewhere beyond his consciousness. A metaphysical organ, of sorts. Out of sight and out of mind, but always within reach.

A matter of seconds, and the node had nothing left to give. Noctis opened his eyes and flexed his hand in front of his face. All was well. Well enough. He felt a little better.

“Come on.” He continued up and over the haven to the next deposit, repeating the process with the blizzard node. Then down to the thunder node. He took all it had to offer, then opened his eyes. He looked up, out towards the serene green sea.

His next breath snagged in his throat. His diaphragm spasmed. Over the even plane of the Galdin Quay dock, Angelgard was burning. Immense flames clawed at the distinctive stone curls. Thick, black smoke plumed skywards, blotting out the blue, reaching towards the sun, eager to deprive the world of daylight.

Like a scene from the apocalypse.

But Noctis was choking on his own inability to breathe right.

“Geez, you okay?” Prompto set a hand on Noctis’ shoulder.

The sudden contact startled him. He wrenched away, whipping around with wide eyes and a renewed shortness of breath.

“Whoa!” Prompto held up both hands, taken aback by Noctis’ reaction. “It’s just me!”

Could he not see it? Could he not _see?_ Noctis raised a hand to point and exclaim, but when he turned back to the ocean, everything was normal again. As if nothing had been wrong. Angelgard sat regal and innocent in the distance, flame-free on its sky-blue backdrop. The whole thing was like a picture. Like a photograph. Two-dimensional. Flat. There was no depth. No depth to it.

“Noct?”

Noctis looked at Prompto, and there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes.

“Thought I saw something,” Noctis said. His voice was rough. He cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. Can we… can we go back now?”

The half-assed explanation really didn’t do much for the anxious angle of Prompto’s eyebrows. But he nodded, head bobbing rapidly up and down. “Yeah. Yeah! Of course. Let’s go back. I’m starving, anyway. Uhh, dibs on first shower!”

They returned to the room. Ignis and Gladio weren’t back yet. Prompto went off to have his shower, and Noctis, still shaken by whatever the hell had just happened on the beach, went out onto the deck. Coincidentally, he had a great view of Angelgard from there. It looked as it always did, high and mighty upon the horizon. The wavelike curls of rock seemed to sparkle with the suggestion of thunder magic, but that was nothing new. To Noctis, they’d always done that. His friends claimed they couldn’t see it.

If Prompto had been paying attention, would he have seen those horrible flames? Or was that a sight reserved for Noctis alone? Not unlike the ability to draw power from elemental nodes, or use the Crystal’s magic. Like how he’d heard Titan’s or Gentiana’s voices. Was this something only he could see? An omen of fire and doom?

Noctis didn’t doubt it. But the flimsy rationalisation didn’t make him less anxious. More anxious than ever, in fact. Crazy anxious.

He tore his eyes from Angelgard, and dropped his gaze down over the railing into the tranquil seawater. It didn’t prove to be too great an improvement. The dog came into his head, lifeless and bloated. He could feel the wet hair under his fingers, slick, hard to grip over muscles tensing, writhing, fighting. Saltwater splashing up his elbows, soaking his sleeves, soaking the front of his shirt, stinging in his eyes and running down his face like cold tears.

No. Wait. That’s not what happened. He jerked back from the railing. The dog was like that when he found it. He couldn’t have. It wasn’t possible—it _wasn’t!_

But the yelps, the whines, the gurgles and splashing. The strength of the creature as it fought against him, frail legs flailing wildly, too clumsy to gain purchase, to _weak_ to get away.

A thud behind him. Noctis jumped and spun around with such a snap that he smacked his elbow on the frame of the nearest chair.

“Ow, _fuck!”_

Gladio snorted. “Since when were you such a klutz? You’re awful jumpy lately.”

Not only was the radiating pain in Noctis’ funny bone supremely unfunny, but it was a good excuse to put off answering for a second. To curl in on himself under the pretext of pain, to take a moment to calm his erratic breathing and banish unfriendly images from the forefront of his mind’s eye.

“Stop sneaking up on me, then,” he finally managed, clutching his elbow as he straightened. It _did_ hurt. It helped, in a way, the pain, but he felt nauseous, light-headed, and wasn’t sure if he’d pinged a nerve or if it was the remembered unmemory of…

Gladio was frowning. “You alright? You look pale.”

Noctis had heard several variations on the same question _so_ many damn times in the past couple days. You’d think they would stop asking and assume that no, Noctis was _not_ alright.

He sat down hard in the offending chair. “Just peachy,” he snarked, though his shaking voice watered down the intended vinegar of his tone. Through the window, he could see Ignis faffing about with their luggage, a brace on his injured wrist. Prompto, done with his shower, sat cross-legged on one of the beds, scrubbing his hair with a towel.

“Right.” Folding his arms, Gladio eyed him up and down. “Prompto actually drag you out for a run?”

Something Noctis always forgot about Gladio was that he could be annoyingly observant when he chose to be. “Something like that.”

“Wonders never cease. Had breakfast yet?”

“No. I was waiting to use the shower.”

Gladio glanced over his shoulder. “Well, it’s free. Go get clean so we can go eat.”

Noctis sighed and hauled himself up. Food was so far from his mind right now. “If you want to eat, go eat.”

“Whatever you say.” Gladio stood there, unmoving, waiting for Noctis to go inside.

“Who made you my babysitter?” Noctis grumbled.

“ _I_ did,” said Gladio. “Plenty of things I’d rather be doing, but I’m on the clock, so hurry it up.”

 

The hot water washed away the sweat and the body odour, but couldn’t quite cleanse the sensation of wet fur from his hands. He scrubbed his palms and fingers and under his nails until his skin felt raw, but it couldn’t dispel the clawing, abiding guilt, the dread, the foreboding, the feeling that he had done something horrible without meaning to or wanting to or even being _aware_ of it.

The dog had been dead before they arrived. That was fact. Wasn’t it? It couldn’t have been him. Could it? Well, stranger things had happened. Certainty is a myth, Noct.

He didn’t eat much at breakfast. Didn’t have the appetite, which only made him feel worse: Coctura had made them her breakfast special, even thrown in extra salmon. Noctis could barely eat half of his. His friends, for once, didn’t give him a hard time. Ignis gently asked him, was he _sure_ he was full? Couldn’t he manage just a _little_ more? But he didn’t press the issue.

Speaking of, Ignis seemed to be getting on fine with his wrist. A minor fracture, the doctor had said. Nothing that wouldn’t be back to normal with a day or two’s rest and a couple more potions. The brace didn’t even hinder him all that much. It was his left, non-dominant hand, so it really wasn’t a big deal, so he insisted. Noctis believed him, but since he was feeling guilty about everything else, he might as well feel guilty about this, too.

After breakfast, they did nothing. What was there to do, when they weren’t off on hunts, or dungeon diving, collecting royal arms, currying favour with Astrals, fighting the Empire? Not much.

Gladio sat outside in the sun with his book. Ignis took inventory. Prompto played _King’s Knight_. Noctis joined him, at first, but he couldn’t seem to focus. After dying twice he decided to bow out and let Prompto play without having to carry a distracted teammate.

Noctis went outside and sat in the sun with Gladio for a while, staring at Angelgard, not thinking about anything in particular. Just existing. His gut was knotted with dread and anxiety, and maybe those knots were the reason he couldn’t focus. Maybe they were the reason he didn’t have the energy to put up his usual walls and convince himself he was fine. Instead, his ill-feelings washed over him, several shades colder than the gentle seaside sunshine. Maybe he even shivered a little. But rather than becoming overwhelmed, it was almost a relief to just _let_ himself be fucked up inside. Just for a while.

Breakfast had been late, so they had a late lunch, too. While they ate, Coctura let them in on a couple new bounties that had just gone up: some unruly shieldshears were causing ruckus on the beach in the afternoons, and a few sabertooths had been seen prowling the roadside. Bad for business. A good way to kill time and slaughter for their supper—for those who were up to it. Ignis’ wrist had him disqualified, as did Noctis’… whatever was wrong with Noctis. Far from the jury still being out on that one, they had abandoned ship completely, leaving mixed metaphors to reign supreme.

Meanwhile, Gladio was way too eager to go hit things with his oversized sword, and though Prompto didn’t have anything so much as a taste for killing, he at least seemed relieved at the prospect of making himself useful for a few hours. After lunch, they returned to the room to get what they would need, then left right away.

Ignis set about calculating how far the reward from these bounties would take them. Noctis decided to take a nap.

Even being as tired as he was, as soon as he lay down he became uncomfortably conscious of his consciousness. Of how very much unasleep he was. He held his eyes closed with as much strength as his eyelids possessed until it was simply too much effort.

He could drift off in the Regalia at a moment’s notice, but in an actual bed? That was asking too much. Even his favourite hobby, sleeping, was becoming too much effort to achieve.

With a sigh, he sat up.

“That was a quick nap,” Ignis remarked.

“Not as tired as I thought. I guess.”

“Something on your mind?”

Noctis didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. Too tired to lie, and the truth was too complicated. He drew his knees into his chest and sighed.

Ignis closed his balancing book. “Noct?”

At Noctis’ continued silence, Ignis got up and came to perch on the side of the bed, slowly, carefully, as if trying not to startle a bird.

“Tell me,” he said softly.

Noctis’ mouth felt dry. “I think…” he began. He stared at his knees with watery vision. “I think I killed that dog.”

“What? Noct, that dog was dead before we got here.”

“I know!” Noctis rubbed furiously at his eyes. “But I _remember_ it. I remember… I remember holding it under the water, _drowning_ it…” He felt like he’d been jogging again, like he needed to stop and catch his breath.

“That’s not possible,” Ignis insisted. “You wouldn’t have had the opportunity, let alone the motive. Perhaps… you only dreamed it? You’ve always had vivid dreams.”

“It wasn’t a dream. It was a _memory_ , Ignis. I know the difference!” Even as he said it, though, he wasn’t sure. Wasn’t the recollection of a dream as much a memory as the recollection of an event?

Noctis changed tack. “When we got here yesterday, before I found the dog… it was like…” he shook his head. “I woke up in the car and everyone was gone. It was like a ghost town. No one around. Like I was the only one left in the world. I thought you guys were pranking me or something, but then… I…” He ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Or maybe I’m going insane. I sound insane. Fuck, Ignis, I _feel_ insane.”

Ignis grabbed Noctis’ wrist. “You are not insane,” he said firmly. “You’re tired and overextended. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. As we always do.”

Noctis nodded jerkily. He wanted to ask, what if this can’t be fixed? What if I’m broken for good this time? But his lungs were on strike, no air, no breath would come. Not for words, not for anything.

“Noct?” Ignis squeezed his wrist. “Look at me. Deep breaths.”

Deep breaths weren’t happening. Noctis was shaking from tremors generated deep within his bone marrow. He was hot all over, too hot, so hot that the tears on his face ought to have evaporated. Everything in his chest was working against him. Heart. Lungs. Ribs, constricting, squeezing. He couldn’t breathe. Ignis’ worried face wavered in front of him. He felt sick. He could barely feel the hand on his wrist. He felt sick, like he was about to throw up. Oh, god, he was about to throw up!

He pulled away from Ignis and scrambled off the bed, stumbled into the bathroom and collapsed in front of the toilet. He retched painfully. Nothing came up but a thin string of bile. His chest burned, all the way up into his throat. He gagged again, then gulped down disinfectant-scented air as if emerging from underwater.

Ignis had knelt beside him, hand cool and steady between his shoulder blades. Noctis’ kneecaps ached from their collision with the tiles. The reintroduction of oxygen to his system made him hyperaware of his every extremity, down to the painful tingling in his wrists and fingers.

Noctis pulled away from the toilet, finally able to take those deep breaths Ignis had recommended. “Sorry,” he croaked, throat raw, as he manoeuvred himself to sit with his back against the bathtub.

“Don’t be,” Ignis murmured. His hand was now on Noctis’ shoulder. “It could be that we’ve disturbed something better left alone.”

“What… what do you mean?”

“Well… when was the last time Costlemark Tower saw any human presence, do you think?”

Noctis thought about it. “Probably… a long time ago.” He coughed to clear the rough edge in his voice. His heart had yet to calm down, and it was hard to hear over its hammering.

“Not for hundreds of years, at least, not since the ill-fated expedition of the Tall,” said Ignis, standing to fetch Noctis a glass of water from the bathroom tap. “An expedition from which no one returned—including that late king. And no wonder. The mazes, the elaborate traps, the complex architecture. They almost seem like security measures.”

Noctis sipped the water. “Security measures? You mean… to keep in that monster we killed?”

“The Jabberwock. A monster with sentience enough to command a small army of daemons to do its bidding. To steal a Royal Arm—the sword of the last Lucian king to face it, prior to yourself.”

Noctis’ head was still too fuzzy to think deeply. There was one standout question he had to voice, however. “But what does this have to do with… whatever’s happening to me?”

“I can’t be sure, but what would a creature with deadly claws and teeth and without opposable thumbs want with a sword, I wonder?”

“What _would_ it want? To corrupt it? Corrupt _me?_ ” His head hurt.

“I don’t know, Noct,” Ignis admitted quietly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t think out loud.”

“It’s fine. You could be onto something.”

“Some research is certainly in order.” He smiled. “But first, you.” He held out his good hand to help Noctis up.

Standing was an exercise in vertigo and wobbly legs, but Ignis kept a hold of him until he was steady. As much as Noctis _loved_ the bathroom, it was nice to step from cold tile to soft carpet, and then to lower his aching, shaking body down onto the bed once more.

“I think I’m ready for that nap, now,” he muttered, shoving his face into the pillow. More than ready. There was too much to think about and he could think of no better escape from thought than sleep. The only souring factor was the possibility of nightmares, but lately, reality had been a nightmare all its own, much worse than anything his burning mind could present him with in dreamland.

“Sleep well, Noct,” said Ignis.

 

He woke up.

Well-wishings, for once, had been more than just words. He hadn’t dreamed at all. The trade-off was that it felt like he hadn’t slept at all. So maybe the well-wishings weren’t entirely effective. You tried, Ignis.

It was right before dusk. Gladio and Prompto had returned with their success. Noctis was awake just in time for dinner, though immediately after setting himself upright he had a headache and an everything-else ache, and not much of an appetite. Although, his aches and pains seemed to be the only thing keeping him in his own body. He felt like he was barely there. Like he could float away at any moment, and no one would even notice. He hardly even heard what his friends talked about over dinner. He wasn’t sure he could even make out their faces.

After dinner, he went straight back to bed. Not much point in doing otherwise. If anyone wished him a good sleep, he didn’t hear.

Fat lot of difference it would have made.

The Jabberwock stood before him, scarred and scaly and ginormous. It loomed over him, strange wing-like appendages spread, crystalline horns glinting. It opened its mouth, long snout splitting horizontally to show him rows of sharp teeth the length of his forearm. It roared, a horrible, piercing, splitting sound that filled his ears and vibrated through his skull.

He felt a horrible, deep pain in his chest, and dropped his eyes from the monster to the hilt of the greatsword lodged through his breastbone.

 

He woke up.

It was dark. The room was still and quiet. It held the barren feeling of sole occupancy; the sense that he was utterly alone. Sitting up confirmed Noctis’ suspicions. Absent were the three other sets of breathing. Absent was the warmth of other bodies in the room. He was alone.

The restaurant was empty, too. That wasn’t in itself unusual—it was late, after all. But all the night-lights were out.

A cold wind gusted through, from walkway to dock, raising goose-bumps over Noctis’ bare arms. It was quiet. Even the sea was silent. Only the wind hummed the faintest of songs as it brushed its chilled claws over every surface it passed.

Okay, that was a ridiculous notion. The wind did not have lips with which to hum, nor did it have claws, nor did it wait at the front of the restaurant for him to walk by so it could hurt him.

The dock. For whatever reason, Noctis felt impelled towards the dock, just like last time. And just like last time, he followed his morbid intuition. Powerless to resist it, in fact. He was strangely calm, even as the image of the drowned dog floated yet again across his mind’s eye. Even as the memory of snapping tendons in his fist made his fingers twitch.

The dock swayed beneath his feet like the deck of a ship. The ocean was calm and glassy, reflecting the clear grey of the clouded sky. Slowly, he walked towards the dock’s end.

There was a loud splash to his left. Some distance out to sea, between here and the softly glowing Angelgard, a cluster of ripples disturbed the pristine water. As Noctis watched, he saw what had caused it as it breached the surface again: white snout, white head, desperately flailing paws. And this time, a strangled yelp.

“Pryna,” Noctis gasped, stunned, as the dog slid under the water again, then resurfaced, struggling. Then disappeared again. She was drowning. As he realised it, Noctis’ heart kicked into overdrive and his feet propelled him forward, into the water.

It was freezing. His lungs seemed to shrivel like dried figs as the sudden drop in temperature threatened to crush his ribcage. His blood must have flash-frozen, because his limbs were almost impossible to move. But move them he did, stroking forward even as the choppy, roiling waves crashed over his head. The saltwater was so intense it was almost sulphuric, stinging his eyes and filling his mouth and nostrils. But he had to keep going, he _had_ to keep going, he _had to keep going—_

A shout: his name. A pair of arms locked around his chest.

“Let go!” Noctis spluttered. “I have to help her!”

“Stop fighting me!” the shouting voice yelled, right into his ear. Ignis. But it barely sounded like him—too panicked, too angry. “Or we’ll _both_ drown!”

“Then get _off!”_ Noctis tried to kick out behind him, maybe catch Ignis in the knee or the shin, but his legs would barely respond to him. He could fight, but Ignis was fighting back, and he had the advantage, and he was stronger, and after an eternity of cold, numb grappling, something shifted and Noctis found the slick wood planks beneath his hands and knees as he coughed up half the ocean.

Ignis was beside him, breathing heavily, both hands on Noctis’ back where he’d pulled him out of the water by grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. He was saying something, but Noctis couldn’t hear through the whooshing and thumping in his head.

Why was there so much water to throw up? He hadn’t been in there for longer than a few seconds, had he? He hadn’t swallowed more than a couple of mouthfuls… right?

When he was done, he looked over his shoulder at the strait between Galdin Quay and Angelgard. The sea was restless, waves crashing every which way. No sign of Pryna.

She’s a messenger, said a flat voice in the back of Noctis’ head. She can’t drown _._ She could just teleport away. Couldn’t she?

Noctis’ elbows gave out and he barely managed to push himself onto his back as he collapsed, staring up at the muddy sky.

Ignis grabbed his shoulders. “ _Are you okay?”_ he demanded, for what was probably not the first time, or even the second. He looked frantic, glasses missing and hair in disarray.

Throat raw, too confused to speak, Noctis nodded.

“Good.” Ignis’ expression changed to one of restrained anguish. He pounded a fist into Noctis’ chest—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to convey the urgency of it. “You _idiot!_ Do you have any clue what I thought when I came to find you and saw you just… swimming out to sea? In _that?”_ He gestured towards the restless ocean. “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

Noctis blinked, taken aback. That, and the cold seemed to have numbed his brain, necessitating a few extra seconds to process Ignis’ words. “I…” His voice was hoarse. “I… _wasn’t_ thinking…”

Ignis closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Whatever’s happening, I know it’s not easy for you. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“It’s okay,” Noctis said meekly. “I would have yelled at me, too.”

Ignis offered a small, worried smile, and helped him to his feet. “Let’s get inside,” he said. “We’ll both catch our deaths if we don’t—” He broke off. His expression morphed to one of shock. Of pain.

Noctis felt something in his hand. He looked down to see his own pale fingers wrapped around the hilt of the broadsword thrust through Ignis’ torso.

“No.” He let go of the hilt. The sword disappeared in a spray of red-tinged blue. Ignis collapsed, his hands already stained red where they clutched the gaping gash in his midsection. In seconds, _less_ than seconds, the blood seeped into the dock planks, teaming up with the water to spread further, faster.

“No!” Noctis fell to his knees at Ignis’ side. “No, no-no-no, this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening! I can’t—I… I didn’t—I _wouldn’t_ —” His words kept drying up and fizzling out until he could only whisper: “This can’t be happening.”

Ignis didn’t speak, just wheezed and stared up at him. He lifted a shaking, bloodied hand to brush his fingertips along Noctis’ jaw. Then his eyes went blank, his breathing stilled, and his hand dropped.

“ _No,”_ Noctis moaned. This couldn’t. Be. Happening. It couldn’t. It _couldn’t!_ What the _fuck_ was going on?!

It was silent. Deathly silent. Noctis blinked away the veil of hot tears and looked around. The sea had calmed again into that sinister, glossy veneer. This was not right. This was not how things were supposed to be.

His breath was coming so fast he could barely see straight, let alone think, but a single stream of thought cut through the black haze of panic: It’s still alive. You didn’t kill it properly. The Jabberwock is still alive.

And then he knew what he had to do. They thought they’d killed it, but they hadn’t. They hadn’t made certain. There was only one way to make certain.

You have to cut off its head.

He looked down again at Ignis’ unmoving form (he refused to call it a corpse; Ignis was _not dead_ this was _temporary_ this was _not real_ he would _fix_ it he would _fix it_ he _would fix it_ ) once more before standing on numb, wobbly legs, making his way back into the restaurant. Dimly, he was aware that it was cold, freezing cold, and that his wet clothes were sticking uncomfortably to his skin and making the cold worse. Making it sharp, painful, like amateur acupuncture with needles of ice. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t even shivering.

As soon as he got inside, he noticed the blood. Wet splotches of red, almost black in the semi-darkness, painting a trail through the open door of their hotel room.

He felt a hilt in his hand. He looked down, startled, at the Sword of the Tall, defiled with the blood of his friends.

_No!_ He dropped the sword. It disappeared in a spatter of red light.

Noctis’ whole body felt brittle as he moved toward that open door. And then he stopped. Through the gap in the door, he could see a foot. Gladio’s. Unmoving. He didn’t want to see any more. This was enough. He didn’t need to see it. He didn’t need to _see_ it, he just needed to _fix it_.

So he ran. He ran out of the restaurant, across the walkway, to the Regalia. He paused for the barest moment to catch his breath, leaning heavily against the car door, and was struck again by how quiet it was. The ocean had stopped breathing. The sky had fallen and died. The entire world had ground to a despairing halt. And Angelgard… Angelgard was burning, a dull red beacon on the horizon.

This wasn’t Noctis’ world. It was somewhere else, a nightmareworld where everything was wrong and hurt too much. This world was so painful that it was uninhabitable, even by the sea and the sky and anything good or beautiful or alive. _That’s_ why there was no one else around. That’s why he—

Overcome by nausea, Noctis doubled over for a moment, staring at his socked feet. He hadn’t even put shoes on. He would have had to go back into the room to get shoes. But if he’d gone into the room… Oh, god, what the fuck was he doing? His friends were _dead_. They were _dead_ and he was out here freaking out about fucking _shoes_ and _he had killed them and—_

The sword was in his hand again, bloodied and glowing faintly. It wasn’t a standard broadsword, its cutting edge resembling a chainsaw more than a sword. It didn’t even have a point, so how had it been sharp enough to—?

He dropped the sword. It fell to the concrete with a resounding clang. He pulled the Regalia’s keys from the Armiger, got in, and started the engine.

The drive to Costlemark was spent in anxious silence. Just him and the car. None of Prompto’s excitable chatter, none of Gladio’s snide remarks, none of Ignis’ knowledgeable commentary. A painful lump rose in Noctis’ throat. He had to fix this.

There wasn’t a single other car on the road, as to be expected, but nor did any daemons spring up to get in his way. Not until he was almost at the parking spot near the Fallgrove.

He noticed the massive hand clawing up from the sickly dark pool in the tarmac in time to slam on the brakes, practically strangling himself with his seatbelt as inertia threw him forward. He didn’t have _time_ to be facing off against a Red Giant, by himself, when his friends were back in Galdin Quay lying in pools of their own blood, and it was up to him to _put things back the way they were_ before he became stuck in this warped reality for good.

Noctis ripped off his seatbelt, tumbled out of the car, and sprinted into the woods before the Red Giant could pull its second leg up out of the nether-realm.

Socks soaked, twigs and stones digging painfully into the soles of his feet, Noctis ran. He could hear daemons on all sides: goblins darting about, Arachnes swinging between the trees, Wraiths and Liches watching him with their empty, soulless eyes. He didn’t stop. The entrance to Costlemark was just ahead, _just_ ahead. It had to be.

But what if he was lost? Lost in the Fallgrove, surrounded by daemons, with no friends no bail him out. No one. Nothing—not even any fucking _shoes!_

Finally, finally, finally, there it was: Costlemark. Light strips glowing blood-red in the darkness. Open for business.

He didn’t pause to catch his breath, worried he might collapse if he stopped for even a second, a second long enough for the adrenaline coursing through him to ebb away, leaving him to feel the trembling in his legs and the numbness in his fingers and the pain in his bleeding feet. He had to do this. He was nearly there. It was nearly over.

A dog was waiting for Noctis at the top of the stairs. A dog with charred skin and burning eyes that stared blankly as he approached. The dog turned, trotting down the stairs and out of sight. It was gone by the time Noctis caught up.

Noctis wasn’t superstitious, but this felt like an omen. An ominous omen, perhaps, but at least a sign that he was in the right place. This was the right thing to do. Right? It had to be. Please, let it be right!

He descended into Costlemark. By some outlandish stroke of luck, it was deserted: not a daemon in sight. Noctis and his friends had slain everything in their path the last time they came through, and apparently it hadn’t yet been long enough for the daemons to repopulate the joint. This little fact, it seemed, was consistent across both the sane world and this horrible, _in_ sane world. _Or maybe they’ve been the same world all along_. Or maybe Costlemark was the point of crossover, unaffected by whatever went on outside, in either world. Any world. _Or maybe they’ve been the same world all along._

After getting lost and turned around so much last time, Noctis knew the way through without even thinking about it. It was almost as if he were in a trance. Too much pain to think straight, too determined, too desperate to stop.

Eventually, finally, _finally_ , he reached the elevator that would take him down to the glowing red heart of the dungeon, where they fought the Jabberwock, where they thought they prevailed.

The elevator stopped, and there it was: the Jabberwock.

It looked pretty dead, lying there in a pool of its own blood, ( _just like—)_ but as Noctis stepped off the platform, the Jabberwock’s scaly eyelids slid open, slitted pupils affixed to him.

Noctis forgot to breathe for a moment, bracing himself for a fight—though, to be honest, he was in no state for a battle. The Jabberwock didn’t attack him, however. Didn’t even try to move. Just stared at him. There was a sort of resignation in the beast’s gaze, as if it knew what must be done. What Noctis had come here to do.

When they’d fought the Jabberwock, they’d hurt it enough to paralyse it; to give it the appearance of death. But there was only one way to end it for good. Noctis even felt a little bad for it—it had been lying here, dead but not dead, for days. Dead but not dead. _Just like his friends._

The Sword of the Tall was in his hand again. He knew just by the feel of the hilt, the weight and balancing of the blade. And he could see the red glow in his peripheral vision.

He glanced at the sword. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe I should have learned from my ancestor’s mistakes and left you alone… but I need this sword.”

Noctis took a deep breath to muster what little strength he had, and raised the sword high above his head. He brought it down over the Jabberwock’s neck, _snicker-snack_ , a sweeping, grinding, churning arch that severed the beast’s head in one blow.

Something shifted. Noctis felt it. Something that had been askew slipped back into place. The sword in his hand was no longer glowing red, no longer mangled with blood. When he let it go, it disappeared in a flicker of crystal blue.

He let out a long, tired sigh. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or sob. The feeling of _wrongness_ that had been with him for the past couple of days was fading, and in its place was, rather than relief, a hysterical exhaustion. He looked once more at the Jabberwock’s severed head, eyes now foggy and vacant. Later he would wonder about _what_ , exactly, the Jabberwock was, but right now Noctis barely had the capacity to think about anything other than getting out of here.

He hadn’t noticed the elevator going back up, and he only noticed it descending when he turned around to see it clicking into place, carrying his friends.

Noctis just about passed out from relief at the sight of them standing there, with conflicted expressions of worry and surprise and confusion.

Now he really did let out a sob, staggering forward to throw an arm each around Prompto and Ignis, who happened to be standing closest.

“Noct!” Prompto cried.

“Are you hurt? What’s happened?” Ignis fussed.

Tightening his hold and burying his face in Ignis’ shoulder, Noctis shook his head. “I thought—I thought you guys were _dead_.”

Prompto rubbed his back. Noctis could almost _feel_ them exchanging Looks over his head, but he didn’t care. He was just so relieved.

“We’re okay,” Prompto said uncertainly. “Everything’ll be okay, Noct.”

“Yeah,” Noctis half-laughed, half-sobbed.

“Kinda strangling me, though.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Noctis pulled away and swiped self-consciously at his watery eyes.

Ignis kept a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Noct… what happened?”

Noctis looked up at him, and his heart stuttered. The last time he’d seen Ignis, the man had been dying—from a wound _Noctis_ had inflicted. And yet there’d been no shred of hatred or betrayal in his eyes as he lay there bleeding out.

“I thought you guys were dead,” Noctis repeated quietly. “I… I watched you die, Ignis. And it was my fault. I… _killed_ you.”

“It wasn’t real,” Ignis said gently, squeezing Noctis’ shoulder. “You would never.”

“So what’s this about?” asked Gladio. Noctis turned to see him standing over the Jabberwock’s head, looking repulsed.

“Decapitation. The only true way to kill a Jabberwock,” said Ignis. They all looked at him. He explained, “I talked to Dino last night, and he managed to dig up some information.” He frowned at Noctis. “But I hadn’t told you yet—how did you know?”

Noctis called the Sword of the Tall to hand. It came with ease, and with a pleasant blue aura. “I think, when the Tall and his retinue came here, the same thing happened to him. They tried to slay the Jabberwock, but didn’t finish the job. So he got stuck in that… other place. The corrupted one. That I got stuck in. And it killed all his friends, and I guess it somehow killed him, too.” _Or maybe the guilt of thinking he killed his friends was too much for him._ Noctis sent the sword back into the Armiger, and shrugged. “I think he must have figured it out too late to save himself… but not too late to save me.”

Gladio strolled back towards them. “So that’s what caused everything that happened? You were stuck between this reality and a corrupted one.”

“I guess?”

“And all that madness is done now? Over?”

“Should be,” Noctis said. He gestured towards the severed head. “I mean… I decapitated it.”

“That thing is _definitely_ dead,” Prompto said with a nervous laugh.

“And you’re just gonna leave me out?” Gladio continued, eyebrow quirked.

It took Noctis a second to realise what he was talking about. When he did, he rolled his eyes, but stepped forward to give Gladio a hug nonetheless. Gladio thumped him on the back and ruffled his hair when he pulled away.

“You had us worried,” Gladio said. “Let’s get out of here before the daemons move back in.”

“How did you guys know where to find me?” Noctis asked as the elevator took them up. “How did you even get here?”

“We didn’t _know_ ,” Ignis admitted. “We could only assume, after the conversation you and I had earlier. You definitely gave us a turn.”

“Which is Iggy-speak for ‘you scared the shit out of us’,” Prompto clarified. “Also, we borrowed Coctura’s car.”

“She wasn’t happy about being woken up in the middle of the night,” Gladio added, “but once she heard you’d gone AWOL, she practically threw her car keys at us.”

“How about that,” breathed Noctis. His vision was wavering. Now that the adrenaline, the relief, and everything else that had kept him going thus far was rapidly draining away, his command over his body was starting to feel distant and delayed. “What… what happened from your perspective? When I… went AWOL.”

Ignis looked at him sidelong, but obliged the question. “Well, I’d dragged you out of the water, but as soon as we were heading back to the room you… checked out. Mentally,” he explained. “I turned away for a second to unlock the door, and you took off running.”

“Then he came and woke _us_ up,” Prompto finished. “Hey, uh, Noct? You feelin’ alright?”

“Noct?” someone else asked. “Noct?”

“Not… feeling so great…” Noctis murmured, as the world tilted and crumbled away.

 

He woke up.

Sunlight filtered through the tent canvas, painting everything gentle gold. For a solid minute, Noctis fought against confusion as he tried to remember what had happened. Then he lay there a minute longer, because he didn’t feel like getting up just yet.

When he did, his first order of business was pulling on some shoes.

His friends were chatting in low voices around the campfire. Ignis was at the stove, and the smell of something rich and meaty pulled Noctis into its warm arms.

Ignis was the first to notice him. “Noct,” he said, with an unmistakeable note of relief. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Noctis said. His head and bad knee were tender, and his whole body felt sluggish, but it was an improvement.

He looked up at the sky, just the faintest shade of blue spattered with wispy, gold-tinged clouds. The sun was setting.

And they were back at Oathe Haven, where it all began.

“Come take a seat, buddy,” said Prompto, patting the camp chair next to him.

Noctis did. As he sat down, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A canine form, with burning eyes, in the shadows at the edge of the trees. But when he looked over, there was nothing there but a dead leaf swirling about in the air currents.

“What’s up?” Gladio asked. “You sure you feel better?”

“Just a leaf,” said Noctis, pointing. “Guess I’m still a little jumpy.”

“As is to be expected,” Ignis said kindly, handing Noctis a big bowl of stew. “I… I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you, to go through something like that.”

“Seriously,” Prompto agreed.

Noctis shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s fine. It’s all over now, anyway.”

He glanced towards the treeline just once more before settling down to eat.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself. At least there were hugs.
> 
> Considering how much I agonised over this monster of a fic, I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts! Even if you just want to yell at me. That's okay, too. Alternatively, you can yell at me on [tumblr](https://voxanonymi.tumblr.com/), where I'm stubbornly hanging on because I don't want twitter.


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